Getting Harry
by chocoholic1
Summary: DOYLE! This is a story about how Doyle met his exwife Harry and their relationship. (Ok so it's 3 4 seasons behind, but i still love him!) Rated PG13 for some strong language, nothing else.
1. Default Chapter

CHAPTER 1  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. If I did Doyle would be alive and also very naked!!! ;)  
  
A/N : This is a story about how harry and doyle met and about their relationship ect. It doesn't really have a category (except maybe Doyleloving)so just READ IT! Oh and I realise Coldplay probably weren't around when this happen, but it's fanFICTION people!!  
  
  
  
  
The first Chapter's a bit boring, but stuff happens in the next one, honest! (It's also not a LoveAtFirstSight fic, which you'll find out in the next chapter.)  
Quite long so if you don't like long fics, don't read.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There was nothing out the window. Literally nothing, just a brick wall and 2 metres of paved yard and a hell of a lot of spat out chewing gum. But there was still a pale and slight young man with dark hair staring out, his head cupped in his hands.   
  
He could hear the kids screaming outside, but he couldn't tell what they were saying (except the occasional cry of DICKHEAD ect. from one of the older students) and anyway he had 'I will always love you' going round his head.  
  
Those songs were the sound track of Doyle's life. The type of ageless songs you can't put a decade on or say when it came from (for example; Bittersweet Symphony, Whiter Shade of Pale, Yellow...) that could have been written 100 years ago or yesterday for all anyone gave a shit. He was always humming one or the other, to the amusement of his students and the immense irritation of the long legged bespectacled teacher he shared an area with.   
  
Suddenly he heard footsteps and voices come into the classroom, so he lent back and turned away from the window.   
  
"Harry, you are so hot!" The muscley sports teacher almost shouted, sweeping the young woman with her curly hair cut near her scalp into his arms. "Oh, hey Frank."  
Doyle gave an appreciative nod.  
  
Doyle was just about to tell them where they could go if they wanted to continue to make out before recess ended (The store room) but he young woman abruptly turned around so he could see her face.  
  
His jaw dropped. 'I will always love you' was forgotten.   
  
She walked passed him, glowing with freedom and sex and beauty. She went out the door he'd just been looking out of.  
"Come out tonight, yeah?" She affirmed before giving Mr. Jacks a cute wave.  
  
  
  
It was then Doyle decided to make Mr. Jacks his arch-nemesis. Who did he think he was, coming and parading his conquests in front of Doyle, just because he taught Gym and Doyle taught Geography (a notoriously geeky subject.)? How dare he, thought Doyle, think he was good enough for such a gorgeous girl when she was obviously made for HIM, the gorgeous and foreign stranger (who admittedly needed to go to the gym a little)?  
Doyle made the resolution to take revenge on Mr. Jacks using any way or means possible.  
  
  
  
Which would have been a good plan if the next day Mr.Jacks hadn't been bawling like a baby as he watched Harry walking out of school with Mr Jalveer on her arm.   
  
  
  
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And this went on until she had been out with almost every teacher, janitor or assistant in the school and pretty much the whole of Goosegreen (A small area of in a largish town somewhere in America). She didn't go out with them for the sake of it of course, she was more like Joey from 'friends', so many men, so little time.   
  
Doyle was sure he would be next, because there was only him, a redhead student teacher named Geff with notoriously bad acne that showed no signs of clearing up soon, or Phil the eighty year old Chinese man from the MacDonald's who wore false teeth (When he remembered.)  
  
He had been down the Gym every day that Fall since Harry had arrived at Goosegreen Middle School. He himself had only just started working there, only his second teaching job.   
  
But after the initial Oh-look-it's-a-new-teacher-with-a-funny-accent-lets-make-his-life-a-living-hell stage the kids and the rest of the staff got used to him, and his boss had to admit he was a brilliant teacher for only nineteen.   
It was something he'd always wanted to do as well, which he acknowledged was really pathetic. And the principle was so impressed with his 'British' education ("Ireland. Not Britain." He had asserted during the interview to the answer "They're the same, aren't they?") it had been easy enough getting a job.  
  
  
So, anyway, the night before Doyle was sure he was going get someone who had become in his head a sex goddess, the epitome of all things perfect, he had decided to take a big step and shave, properly.   
  
Leaning to look in the bathroom mirror that was placed too low, he hummed 'Dream a little Dream of me' and thought, this is it, and for once I am going to get some. All those girls who I drooled over but never got won't matter because LOGIC says Harry has to choose me next. He grinned, almost slicing the skin of his chin, and went to bed safe in the knowledge that be sheer process of elimination he would be next on Harry's list.  
  
  
Unfortunately logic turned out to be a cunning little shit, and later in the week Harry appeared hand in spotty hand with Geff.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Please review, you have read it after all! 


	2. 2

CHAPTER 2  
  
  
  
  
Doyle stared at the space on colourful the wall between the tough-looking, stubbly mean with the beer gut and the thin chain smoking teenage girl.   
  
"Whatcha lookin' at, shithead?" Enquired Dave one of the soup kitchens regulars, affectionately.   
  
"Ah, nuthin'." Doyle said truthfully, his arms engulfed up to the elbow in the washing up.   
  
"Good, good 'cos you look sort of, y'know depressed. Or do I mean depressing? Yeah that's more like it."  
  
And Doyle was. He was depressed because he had forgotten what the second verse to 'A Long December' went like and it had been grating on his nerves all day, that he knew the tune but the words had just departed from his long term memory. "Nope." He said.  
  
  
"Hey, Francis, more plates! Oh, hi Roland! Plates, NOW Francis." Cried the high pitched girl who was serving as another volunteer walked in.  
  
"Hey Roly, man, wanna help wash up?" Doyle yelled at the newcomer, before he looked up and saw who was on his arm.  
  
Just the girl he had idolised last month, clacking around in 3 1/2 inch heals and her short blond hair tied in tiny little plaits.   
  
But although Doyle felt the smallest tug at his heart strings, it wasn't such a big event for him. After the disappoint meant of what he called Geff-gate, he had given up and   
his latest crush was the hairdresser who worked in the salon down the road from him and the two had flirted relentlessly. Because he wasn't quite out of that fun stage when you can be envisioning marriage, love and growing old ect. Ect. Ect. with someone, only to forget it within a few weeks. A crush is a crush, after all.  
  
"Hey, guys, this is Harry." Introduced Roland, "She's going to be helping out here for a bit." He had obviously overestimated how much anyone there cared what he did, and the embarrassment showed in a swelling blush that showed on his neck and face and hands.  
  
Dave rolled his eyes. One more person who was here for a dumb reason. He didn't know about anywhere else in the country, but here the 'volunteers' didn't work there because they cared. Harry started work because her boyfriend Roland had, and in turn the ever-popular Roland had started because his ex-girlfriend had. The high pitched server who fancied Roland and was at this moment hitting Doyle round the head with a plate he should have washed already, had started because it was something she could put on her college application form. Doyle worked here because he got mind numbingly bored on Thursday evenings (the Simpson's wasn't on) and it meant he didn't have to shave to look better than everyone else in the room. Also he secretly thought that if he ever became homeless (Which his mother had assured him if he kept up the way he was going he would)he could hold it against people, like; "Hey! I gave YOU a place to stay and some food!"   
  
  
  
  
  
  
For the next month, Doyle avoided speaking to Harry, because she would have been able to tell that he had been infatuated with her, even if he wasn't anymore. He was afraid she would remember the stammering look he had given her when she said, "Excuse me" when he was standing in the doorway. But of course she hadn't noticed, and didn't remember who he was, but he imagined she did. He imagined that every time she handed him a ladle, she was thinking, Oh God, it's that creep who fancies me again.  
  
But one night when Doyle was cleaning up, he heard the door open and Harry walked in.  
  
She looked apologetically at him, "Err... Frank, is it?" Doyle let it go. She spread her hands out. "Err.. could you do me this big, big favour?"  
  
Doyle talked to the open door behind her, "Err, sure, what is it princess?"  
  
"I'm really sorry, but could you dump Roland for me?" She looked pleadingly in his eyes like a defendant who knows they're guilty.  
  
Doyle took a deep breath, "Well, wouldn't you better do that yourself?"  
  
She laughed a short laugh through her teeth, "Oh no, I never do that."  
  
Doyle laughed mirroring her, though he didn't know what was funny, "Why?"  
  
She moved uncomfortably around, "I dunno. I guess I just couldn't take it."  
  
Doyle raised his eyebrows, finally looking at her through his blue eyes, "You couldn't take it."  
  
Harry spread her hands in when faced with a lack of explanation, " I dunno, it's hard, it's lack, y'know, their faces? Yeah, that didn't make sense."  
  
"No, I know what you mean." Doyle said, "OK, I'll tell him what you said." Doyle (like everyone else at the soup kitchen) had never really liked Roland, with his classic good looks but classic no personality.   
  
Harry didn't leave though, so Doyle felt he should say something, "So... all those guys from the school...you didn't tell ANY of them to their faces?"  
  
"No." Harry said defensively adjusting her purse on her shoulder. Then she exploded, "Oh so you know about that, so you think I'm a slut, yeah? Well you can just shove it..."  
  
"I don't think you're a slut!" Doyle said.  
  
"Then why bring it up?! I didn't go out to date everyone in Goosegreen. I just went with one guy, and then I met someone else and... it didn't do it on purpose, I just like guys, OK?" Harry felt deflated, and she turned to leave.  
  
Doyle sensed that this was one of those moments that could change the way things were going. It was as if time had slowed down, giving him time to find the right thing to say. "Well, personally," he brouged, "I think it's complete double standards. I had a mate in Ireland and he'd slept with the whole of Dublin, but was he a slut? Oh no!" Doyle was repeated the lecture his mother gave him every time he called Pamela Anderson a slapper.   
  
Harry smiled, but raised her eyebrows suspiciously. Doyle continued, "And hey  
we're young! I mean, why the hell should we be tied down by the theories of 'Love Lasts Forever ect. It's kinda bullshit!"  
  
Harry stared. She walked slowly over her foot steps making the tiniest echo in the empty room, and she kissed him.  
  
Doyle felt first of all surprised, like he'd been kicked in the face. Then all the daydreams and feelings he'd had about Harry when he'd been in the deepest place of his crush came surging back like a flood. Then he felt something different. Something new, like everything was changing and he could be this happy tomorrow and the rest of forever.  
  
Then she stopped kissing him, drew her hand back and gave him the strongest slap he'd ever felt. "I knew it! You said all that stuff just so I'd do that didn't you! You... argh!" She said before slapping him again (less hard because her arm was tired and walking out.  
  
"Why are all men liars? And I won't becoming to this godforsaken hell hole again, ok?" she said over her shoulder, then she slammed the door.  
  
  
Doyle stood there clutching his face in a dreamy love daze. (Unfortunately this daze caused him to forget to tell Roland he was dumped and he didn't realise until several months later.)  
  
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You like? Please review. 


	3. 3

CHAPTER 3  
  
This takes place a few weeks after the last chapter.  
  
  
  
A Grandma babysitting for her son watched absentmindedly the good looking, dark haired Irish man attempting to find his keys whilst simultaneously balancing his shopping, his briefcase, an open bottle of whisky and some modelling clay.  
  
Doyle found the keys and pushed his door open. His apartment wasn't big by anyone's standard, but it contained so many THINGS.   
There are some people who when they move in someone they inhabit it completely. Every corner, however small, becomes filled with something that is THEIRS, to prove that this is THEIR place, and not YOURS. Doyle was one of those people and as he collapsed on the couch he crushed a Nirvada tribute tissue box and a small photo frame with a picture of his mother standing proudly in front of their first house.  
  
His shut his eyes and fell into a doze almost immediately.   
  
His world swirled around; the persistent knocking that was getting noticeably louder was disturbing his dream (whatever it was, he'd forgotten now.)  
Door. He mind told him groggily, there's someone at the Door.  
He stretched and, knocking the shopping of his lap where he'd dropped it, got up to answer.  
  
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Harry had always wanted to work with alternative health. Well since she was fifteen and someone had told her it was what hippies do. Because, she'd always been into things that were new, adventurous, and hippies had started a whole generation finding things that were new and adventurous. That was what they represented, and she wanted to represent it too.  
  
But unfortunately, the only alternative health shop any around Breakstone where she lived was the size of a very small garage and only stocked things like herbal tea. It was run by an Indian woman called Amrita and a Texan called Brooklyn who were teaching Harry how to do acupressure and massage. (Unsuccessfully, so far.)  
  
  
  
So on a sunny but cold Tuesday in late December Harry was standing at the counter whilst Amrita made tea for a disgruntled customer who had been the victim of one of Harry's early massage attempts.   
  
She had her covered her face in her hands. She hadn't been happy for a long time, but hey that's not new is it? And it was a vague unhappiness that no one can do anything about anyway.  
She sighed, because she started thinking about that Irish guy from the soup kitchen.  
  
The street was busy outside, cars rocketing past. It was December but the tiny tree outside was still gripping to the last few of it's leaves, and they huge on mercilessly until a large man in a big, black, pinstripe suit walked past and they plunged to the ground. The shadows were short and the sun was a big, pale oval in the winter sky.  
  
Why hadn't I noticed him before, she thought? He'd hardly spoke to her since the day she came, but he'd when she'd heard him with the rest of them he'd seemed funny; and so chilled out! And when he'd spoke to her that day she'd wanted to believe he was just being nice, but how could he be when it had sounded so scripted?   
She formed a picture of him in her head, just a bit taller than her, dark hair, blue eyes, and cute smile. Nice ass, she remembered, grinning.   
  
"Why am I such a fuck up?!" She asked out loud. She heard the customer in the back mutter yell something back, but she ignored it.   
  
  
Suddenly, it came to Harry in a flash. She would find him! She reached under the desk to find the huge, battered A-Z Brooklyn used to stand on when he was changing the light bulb.   
Thumbing through it she got a feeling of change hurtling towards her, unknowingly echoing Doyle's feeling from the night they argued.   
  
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The door swung open, and there she was. Her hair loose and forming curls barely two inches long sticking up everywhere. It's cute, Doyle thought.   
  
"Uh, there's a buzzer." He began, on autopilot because he'd just been woken up.  
  
"S'not working." She said, eyes moving nervously across the floor; she was regretting coming here.   
  
Doyle nodded. Most things in his apartment block didn't work.  
  
"I came to talk to you..." She started. Doyle nodded and smiled again and backed against the wall with his arm out gesturing for her to go in.  
They went inside and he sat back on the couch, a multi-coloured blanket slung over the back. She stayed standing, painfully uncomfortable.  
  
"I'm sorry-" Doyle started looking up at her.  
  
"I'm sorry-" Harry started simultaneously, looking up from the floor.  
  
They smiled half-heartedly. "Why are you sorry?" Harry whispered, blushing bright red.  
  
"I was gonna say the same thing, princess!" Doyle laughed, "But I still got the hand print on my face to remind me!" He paused and took a deep breath, serious, "I'm sorry, I didn't say that stuff JUST to get you to kiss me, if it helps."  
  
"Doesn't matter." She said, "Listen, I'm just like a load of other people alright? A real fuck-up. I over react, and I do stupid things, and I act like a j-jerk." She shook herself to stop herself stuttering like an idiot.  
  
Doyle stood up. He reached out and touched her the cheek softly. "You're not a jerk."  
  
She laughed and reached up to put her hand over his, "How do you know? How do you know we're not both fuck ups?"  
  
"Course we are, precious. But so what?" he looked away from her with his eyes, "Sorry if I upset you, you didn't need to track me down." He said, now incredibly nervous. Did she like him or not?   
  
"Hey!" she said sharply, still holding his hand. Her voice softened "Let's agree on something OK? No more apologies, either of us."  
  
"No. Never."  
  
And she leaned softly forward and their lips met, drawing the pair into the kiss so they forgot everything around them, all the worries and the apologies, and just thought about the two of them.   
  
  
"Shut the frickin' door!" Hollered the man who had come to pick up kids from his mother.   
  
  
  
  
  
And that was 'Doyle and Harry' started.  
  
  
  
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TBC Please review. 


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